Blink

They call it the cradle of Islam. A land covered by a white
sand that hides vast reserves of black oil. A country where
wealth is measured by the number of palaces a man owns. A kingdom
ruled without a constitution, by a king and a thousand princes
who hold all the positions of power. A society that guards dark
secrets covered up with rubies and diamonds and black veils. A
world stuck in time like a fairy tale gone awry.

The country is Saudi Arabia and it is heaven and it is hell,
depending on the name of your father. Depending on your loyalty
to the religion. But mostly depending on whether you were born
male or female.

Miriam was born the latter, the daughter of a prince named
Salman bin Fahd, and today the sounds of hell floated through the
palace, mocking the thousand or so female guests whod
gathered for her friend Sitas wedding.

Miriam swept the purple velvet drape to one side and gazed
through the window to the courtyard. The marble palace had been
completed just last year and was easily the grandest of her
fathers residences. She hadnt visited all of them,
but she didnt need to. Prince Salman bin Fahd had four
wives, and hed built each of them three palaces, two in
Riyadh, and one in Jiddah. All four wives had identical dwellings
in each location, as was the common practice, although to say his
wives had the palaces was misleading. Father had
the palaces, and he had wives to put in each.

This, Salmans thirteenth palace, hed built solely
for special events such as todays, the wedding of his
friend Hatam.

Outside, the sun glinted off a spewing fountain in the center
of a large pond. Bright red petals from two hundred dozen roses
flown in from Holland blanketed the water. Evidently the groom,
Hatam bin Hazat, had heard that his young new bride liked red
roses. Upon seeing the extravagant display two days earlier, Sita
vowed never to look on another red rose in her life.

Dozens of Filipino servants crossed the lawn, carrying silver
trays stacked high with every imaginable kind of food prepared by
eighteen chefs brought in from Egypt. Roast almond duck, curried
beef rolled in lamb flanks, liver-stuffed lobsterMiriam had
never seen such an extravagant display of food. And this for the
women only. As at all Saudi weddings, the men would never
actually see the women. Custom required two separate ceremonies
for the simple reason that women attended weddings unveiled. The
true path of Islam forbade a man from seeing the face of a woman
unless she was a family member or tied very closely to his
family.

Sounds of music and drums and gaiety drifted through the
window, but really they were the sounds of death. Miriam once
told her mother that a Saudi woman dies three times during her
span on earth. She dies on the day of her first menses, when she
is forced to don the black veil and slip into obscurity; she dies
on the day of her wedding, when she is given as a possession to a
stranger; and, most mercifully, she dies when she finally gives
up her ghost. The statement had earned her a slap.

Best be a good woman and accept your fate.

The women in Miriams life had always said that. The
whole world seemed to say that. Miriam had studied in America for
three months one summer, and she found that even the Americans
said that, not about themselves, of course, but about foreign
women. Best be a good woman and accept your fate. Not in
so many words, of course, but those few who took the time to hear
her stories just attributed the horrors to cultural differences.
What Saudis called social pressure, Americans called political
correctness, and questioning anothers cultural practices
was clearly not politically correct.

Perhaps if the Americans knew Saudi history better, they would
rise up in outrage and wave that flag of human rights they took
up now and then. But after her brief exposure to the Americans,
she doubted they wanted to hear the truth.

Miriam let her mind drift over the events that had placed her
and her friend Sita here, in this magnificent palace, where they
awaited the ceremony that would end Sitas life as she knew
it.

The kingdoms first king, Abdul Aziz bin Saud, conquered
Riyadh in 1902. He was in his early twenties then, and he swung
his sword until he ruled most of the Arabian Peninsula. The four
kings since his death in 1953 were all his sons. But when
Miriam looked down historys foggy halls, she decided it was
the kings women, not his sons, that truly delighted Aziz.
Hed shown his appetites by taking over three hundred women
as wives and perhaps over a thousand slaves and concubines as
lovers, often sequestering them in a windowless basement. To keep
other lovers out, he said.

Yes, Aziz liked his women. But hed often treated them as
animals, and to Miriams thinking the treatment had stuck.
Women were barred from a host of activities common to men.
Driving, for example. Driving gave the female too much freedom
and required skills not natural to the woman, men said. Neither
was a woman allowed to give testimony in a dispute, other than
the word of the last man she had spoken with. Evidently a woman
could no better steer her tongue than she could steer a car.
Women were muzzled with black hoods and held captive in their own
homes by husbands who ruled with iron fists.

It was a kind of death.

Today it was her friend Sitas turn to die.

Miriam took a deep breath and bit her lip. In one sense,
weddings did represent life. They were the one time when
thousands of women gathered and shed their black abaayas and
veils for colorful dresses. For a few days, the nonperson of the
Saudi culture could become a real person, allowed to be viewed by
other real persons before being forced back into their abaayas.
Like many daughters of royalty Miriam had received a classic
English education in Riyadh and at every opportunity experimented
with Western ways and clothes, everything from jeans to bathing
suits. But here in the kingdom, those opportunities were few and
never in the public eye.

"I cant believe its actually happening,"
Sita said from the sofa.

Miriam let the curtain fall back in place and turned around.
Sita sat like a small doll dressed in lace and pink Her eyes were
round and darkso very sad. Miriam and Sultana had rescued
Sita from a flock of aunts busying her for the final marriage
ceremony and brought her here, to this room theyd dubbed
the piano room for the white grand piano sitting to their right.
The carpet, a thick Persian weave with a lion embroidered at the
center, swallowed their feet. Evidently someone liked big cats;
the walls of the room formed a virtual zoo of cat paintings. It
wouldnt be her father, Salman; the old bull didnt
have a creative hair on his head.

Sitas lips trembled. "Im scared."

Sultana, the third in the inseparable trio of friends, ran her
hand over the younger girls hair. "Shh, shh. It
wont be the end of the world. At least hes wealthy.
Better to marry into palaces than into the gutter."

"How can you say that?" Sita was squeaking in
desperation, and Miriam felt her own throat tighten.
"Hes old enough to be my grandfather!"

"Hes younger than my sisters husband,"
Miriam said. "Saras husband was sixty-two when he
snatched her from the cradle. I understand that Hatam bin Hazat
is no older than fifty-five."

"And Im fifteen!" Sita said.

"And Sara was fifteen too," Miriam said. Shed
always considered the tradition of old men snapping up young
girls cruel, but in the face of Sitas unavoidable
predicament, Miriam desperately wanted to offer hope.

"What about Haya?" Miriam continued.

That got silence from both of them. Her father, Salman bin
Fahd, had taken Haya as a bride two years earlier when
Miriams mother died. Fine enough, except that his new bride
was only thirteen at the time. As was customary, the
thirteen-year-old girl took over the duties of the wife in their
household, even though she was younger than those under her
charge. Miriam had been nineteen.

At first the notion had infuriated Miriam. But one look at
Haya's trembling lips after the wedding changed her heart. The
girl was terrified, a condition that only grew worse when Father
ignored his other three wives for a full month in favor of his
new young bride. Haya played the submissive wife and survived the
ordeal.

But Sita was not Haya.

Miriam looked at Sita's frightened face. Her friend was still
a child. Seeing her round eyes, Miriam wanted to cry. But she
could never cry, especially not now, just minutes before the
ceremony.

Sultana looked out the window, fire in her eyes. Of the three,
she was perhaps the boldest. She was twenty-three and barren. But
she was married to a good man who treated her well and turned a
blind eye to her outspoken resentment of their societys
ills. Both Sita and Miriam found her and her candor welcome
companions. The three had formed a tight bond of friendship, and
if the group had a leader, it was Sultana. Shed been to
Europe with her husband many times, and although her black veil
imprisoned her, too, she was never physically mistreated or
forced beyond her will like so many women.

"Haya was two years younger than you," Miriam said.

"Im not Haya!" Sita returned.

"This is ridiculous and you know it, Miriam,"
Sultana said softly, casting a glare.

Miriam sat next to Sita and stared at Sultana. "Of course
I know it. But its also unavoidable. What do you suggest,
that she just walk out of here and make a run for it?"

"I saw him," Sita said softly.

Miriam glanced up, shocked. Sultanas mouth fell open. It
was highly unusual for a man or a woman to have seen the one they
were to marry before the actual wedding.

"You saw the groom?" Sultana asked. "You
saw Hatam?"

Sita nodded, her face wrinkled in distress.

"How?" Miriam asked. "What is he like?"

"Two weeks ago, at the Souq Market." She
looked up and her eyes flashed. "Hes a pig!" She
turned to the side, crying. "An elephant! Hell kill
me."

Miriam knew she should say something, but words escaped her.
Shed never seen Hatam, but her younger brother, Faisal,
once joked about him being a large man. Evidently, Hatam was
powerful in Jiddah but few knew him in Riyadh. The marriage was
tied to a business deal between Hatam and Sitas father,
himself a wealthy developer.

Sultana stood and stormed across the room. At any other time
she would be spitting contempt for a womans place in Saudi
society about now, telling them they should slit Hatam's throat
or something.

Absurd. But today the die had been cast Sita would marry this
pig who had paid his dowry and waited to collect his new pet.
There was nothing any of them could do about it.

Sita sniffed and wiped her nose with a frail, shaky hand. She
spoke quietly. "I make a vow," she said. "I make a
vow today to refuse my husband. He will not touch me while I am
alive."

Miriam reached out a hand. "Please, Sita. . ."

Sita rose to her feet, suddenly red in the face. "You do
not have to marry him, Miriam I do. I'm not ready to
marry." She trembled, nothing more or less than a desperate
child. Miriam felt her stomach turn.

"I swear he will never touch me, not if I have to
claw his eyes out!" Sita said.

Miriam stood. "He will only hurt you!"

"No," Sultana said, walking back. "She's right,
Miriam This marriage is a sick perversion of the prophets
intention. If no one ever fights back, our children will face the
same."

"But this isnt the time to complain," Miriam
said. "This is Sita wedding! Who will pay the price for her
intolerance? She will!"

"And who will pay the price when the big fat pig goes
after her?"

They stared at each other, silent.

"I swear it," Sita said, and Miriam did not doubt
her. She might be only fifteen, but she was a fighter to the
bone.

Miriam made another plea. "Maybe hes a loving
man."

"Thats easy for you to say," Sita snapped.
"Youre almost twenty-one and youre still not
married. And you have this secret love with Samir. I hate you
for it!" She turned away and crossed her arms, and a fresh
tear slipped down her cheek.

"You dont hate me, Sita. You better not hate me,
because youre like a little sister to me and I love you
dearly."

Twenty and not married. Rumor had it that dozens of suitors
had approached Father for her hand and hed turned them all
away. It was a sore subject that Miriam had warded off a hundred
times with various excuses. In fact, she herself had not known
the truth until Samir had confided in her just two years ago. It
was the only secret she kept from her two friends. Soon enough
they would know the truth.

"What is worse, to suffer punishment because you refuse
your husband," Sultana asked, "or to suffer at his
hand? You wouldnt know, Miriam. Salman protects you."

Heat flashed up Miriams spine. "My father protects
me? Believe me, theres no love lost between Salman and me.
He doesnt know how to love a woman."

"Maybe, but hes still protecting you from an early
marriage," Sita shot back. "So how do you know how it
feels to be given away like a rag doll to an ugly old pig?"

"Both Haya and Sara were married"

"Sure, your mother and sister were married early, but not
you!"

The door suddenly flew open and they turned as one.
"Sita!" Her mother stood in the doorway, white as a
sheet. "Where have you been? They are ready!"

Then she saw Sita's tears and she hurried in, her face
softening. "Please, dont cry, child. I know you are
frightened, but we all grow up, dont we?" She smoothed
Sita hair and looked at her lovingly.

"Im afraid, Mother," Sita said.

"Of course. Its a big step, but you must think
beyond the uncertainty that you feel and consider the wonderful
position that awaits you as the wife of a powerful man." She
kissed her daughters forehead.

"Hes a wealthy man, Sita. He will give you a good
life, and youll bear him many children. What else could a
woman ask? Hmm?"

"I dont want to bear his children."

"Dont be silly, Sita! It will be a great honor to
bear his children. Youll see." She paused and studied
her daughter tenderly. "God knows how much I love you, Sita.
I am so proud of you. It seems that just yesterday you were still
a child, playing with your dolls. Now look at you, how
youve grown into a beautiful young woman." She kissed
her again. "Now, come along. The drummers are waiting."

She slipped Sita's black veil over her face. Just like that
Sita was a faceless one again, emotions covered, bundled in her
black body bag, although today the body bag had been fancied up
in pink for its new owner, Hatam bin Hazat, the old, fat pig.

Miriam joined a thousand other women in the great hall and
watched with growing dread as the drums announced the
grooms arrival. As in all Saudi weddings, the only men
present were the brides father, the grooms father
(who in this case was dead of old age), the groom himself, and
the religious man who would execute the marriage.

Hatam walked out alone, and Miriam nearly gasped aloud.
Blubber sat like a bloated inner tube around his stomach,
sloshing with each step despite his attempt to hide it under a
tent of a tunic. The fat under his chin hung like a reservoir of
water. To say the man was large would be a horrible
miscalculation. He was an obese ape.

Beside Miriam, Sultana groaned softly. Several women glanced
at her, but she ignored them. Sultana was right. This was a gross
injustice, and they should rush the man and claw his eyes out
before he had a chance to lay eyes on dear young Sita.

The drums beat again and Sitas mother and her aunt led
her out. The black veil hid her face, but Miriam imagined she was
already spitting at the obscene sight before her. A sweat broke
out on Miriams brow, and she began to mutter prayers under
her breath.

Hatam grinned at his new child bride, and when he lifted the
veil, a sickening glint filled his eyes. Sita stood staring at
him blankly, and in her cloaked defiance, she looked more
beautiful than Miriam could remember.

The ceremony lasted only a few minutes. The actual marriage
had been performed hours earlier, first with the bride and then
with the groom separately, signing documents that affirmed the
agreed upon dowry and terms of marriage.

Now the religious man looked at Sitas father and spoke
the token words that confirmed Sita's marriage to Hatam. After a
nod, he glanced over at the groom, who replied that he accepted
Sita as his bride. A thousand women broke the silence, shrieking
and ululating with their tongues. It was a sound meant to express
joy, but today it sent chills down Miriams arms. Hatam
walked past his new bride, tossing coins to the women. Sita
hesitated, then followed.

He led Sita from the room, and Miriam saw that her friend
walked unsteadily, like a lamb still searching for its legs, now
being led to the slaughter by this monster.

The women began to move outside where more food and
celebration awaited them. Music wavered across the room again.
They would celebrate for another two days after the groom
departed with his new bride. Celebrate what? Sitas death?
Still, it was the way it was. Like Mother used to say, the sooner
they got used to it, the easier life would become.

Miriam felt like she might throw up.

Excerpted from:Blink by Ted Dekker, copyright 2002. Used by permission.
All rights reserved.